Getting Even. Avril Tremayne
Читать онлайн книгу.
supposed to accept that life would go on the way it had been going on for the past seven years, two months, three weeks and five days? Did she have to keep enduring, with this barren rage choked inside her, this desperate desire for something too nebulous to name except to say that it was more than love, what she’d once had, what she’d lost?
Yes—that had to be the answer to those questions. Yes, she had to accept, she had to endure, she had to live...because the world kept spinning even if she had stopped.
She imagined this was how it would feel to be shut in a coffin with the lid nailed down but to still be breathing. Buried alive, screaming for someone to set you free, but nobody hearing you and life outside your airless cocoon going on without you. It’s how she’d felt growing up a Johnson, like she was stifling. How she’d felt at that finishing school she’d been sent to for a year when she’d been expelled from high school during her rebellious phase. How she’d felt when college finished and Rafael had left her and she’d gone back to New York to pick up her old life because what else was she supposed to do?
Oh God, she needed to move, needed air and peace and quiet. But her feet stayed rooted to the spot, longing for something else, unable to bear that this really was that final moment and she’d never see him again.
The decision was made almost without conscious thought—that if that were true, if she really was never to see him again, she would look her fill and add the last view of him to all those memories she couldn’t bear to resurrect. It was safe to look, from here—the crowded dance floor a perfect filter. People moving together, drawing apart. Now-you-see-him-now-you-don’t. Flashpoint vignettes so brief he’d have to know she was there to catch her at it.
And so she drank in the sight of him. The black hair, the so-white smile against his gold-bronze skin, his lean elegance in that perfectly tailored suit and of course he didn’t need the constraint of a tie...
She closed her eyes, the better to file the picture away. Enough. Surely that was enough. But it wasn’t enough, so she opened her eyes to see him once more...and found him staring at her from across the dance floor.
Now you see me.
Oh God, had he known she was there all along?
The crowd on the dance floor moved.
Now you don’t.
Go! Get out! That was the voice of reason in her head screaming at her. But her feet wouldn’t obey the order. It was as though a string connected her to Rafael despite the viewing channel having closed.
Sixty seconds...dancers shifting...her pulse thundering in her ears, her breaths coming short and shallow.
Now you see me.
And Rafael was still staring at her, like he’d been x-raying through the blood, bone and sinew of the gyrating bodies on the floor to watch her.
The dancers on the floor drew close together again, the line of sight narrowed and was gone, the music changed to something slow and romantic. Couples music.
Veronica imagined Rafael going to find Felicity, leading Felicity onto the dance floor, and the spell holding her there broke so that she was moving at last, weaving between the tables...exiting the hall...through the marquee...crossing the lawn. And she didn’t care that Johnsons never ran away, she just needed to breathe.
She was glad it was still light enough for her to see even though it was past nine o’clock, but she wouldn’t have long before she was stumbling around in the dark.
If only Rafael would leave early! Take Felicity and go. But, oh God, that would mean they’d soon be in bed together. He’d kiss her the moment they were alone. Peel off her skintight teal dress. He’d whisper to her that she was beautiful. Eres hermosa. That he loved her. Te amo. That he’d love her forever. Te amaré por siempre—
No! Not that! Not that he’d love her forever! He couldn’t say that, he couldn’t. The mere thought of him saying that to another woman made Veronica want to throw up.
Oh how she wished she could time-travel back to five minutes before he’d turned around in the chapel so she could escape through that side exit, go to her cottage, pack her things, drive to the airport and board the first plane out.
Or go further back to the day the wedding invitation had arrived and decline it.
Go all the way back to the night she’d met Rafael Velez and not fall in love at first sight.
It was the most potent of all her memories, the night they’d met, and she’d been suppressing it for so long, trying so hard to seal it off in the vault, and it wasn’t fair that it could ache in her chest now like a fresh, jagged wound.
End of first semester. Finals over. Planning one last night out with Romy before Christmas break. Deciding on Flick’s—a favorite student hangout because the drinks were cheap and nobody ever got asked for ID. Thirty seconds in, noticing a tall, hunky guy surrounded by women. Matt. But it was the lean, intense man with Matt who’d caught Veronica’s attention. Rafael.
Rafael’s dark eyes had landed on her from across the room and she’d instantly made up her mind that that was the night she’d finally go all the way. He’d leaned close to Matt, whispered something, and Matt had looked at her, his vivid green eyes undressing Veronica like a bolt of fast lightning before moving on to Romy. Matt had cocked his head to the side—presumably assessing Romy’s fuckability—given a why-not shrug, and the two of them had headed over.
Perfect, perfect night. Talking to Rafael about nothing in particular and yet everything. Matt and Romy laughing in the background. Having only one Kir Royale—her favorite cocktail—before switching to water because she wanted to remember losing her virginity. None of them wanting to call it a night at closing time. Going back to the three-bedroom town house Veronica’s father had bought to see her through university. Dumping coats and scarves, kicking off shoes.
She had a vague memory of Matt and Romy on the couch together, waging a battle over the sex life of Captain America. But the only sex life of interest to Veronica that night was her own, so she’d taken Rafael boldly by the hand and led him to her bedroom.
Almost before the door had closed, she’d been in his arms being kissed. She remembered him drawing back, asking her, “All right?” and waiting for her ardent “Yes” before removing her clothes. Kissing her mouth as each item came off. Murmuring to her in English and Spanish. Telling her how lovely she was—encantadora que eres. That he’d wanted her his whole life—yo te he querido toda mi vida. That he’d never felt so wild for anyone—nunca había sentido esto por nadie.
Then one more kiss. “Are you sure?” he’d asked and she’d taken his hands, put them on her breasts and nodded because her throat was too tight to speak.
He’d run his fingers over her skin—gently, reverently, as though he’d known it was her first time—before letting them settle between her thighs, stroking her there until she’d come. His tongue next, traversing the path his fingers had taken until he’d dropped to his knees to lick her, holding her hips steady as she trembled through the orgasm that took her over like a warm wave.
Only once the very last ripple had receded did he get to his feet. He’d stripped then—no fanfare, just getting his clothes out of her way. And then he’d taken her hands in his and put them on his lightly haired chest, mirroring the trust with which she’d placed his hands on her breasts, inviting her to touch anywhere she wanted—as much or as little, as hard or as soft, as fast or as slow. And while she did that, the pads of her fingers roaming at will, his fingers had returned to that throbbing place between her legs, slipped inside her, stretching her, preparing her.
Not until she’d sent her fingers down the narrow trail of hair below his navel and taken the hot girth of his cock in her hand did he stop her, his hand over hers. “No more until you’re ready for me to take you, mi vida,” he’d said, and